


The Death of a Hero

by LacrimosaTheDark



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Based on a Tumblr Post, Enemies to Friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LacrimosaTheDark/pseuds/LacrimosaTheDark
Summary: Roman never thought there would be a day when he didn't feel good enough, when he didn't feel like he could be the hero everyone thought he was. He certainly never thought he'd end up on the doorstep of his arch enemy in the middle of the night during a storm. Life is full of surprises.Based on a tumblr postDon't worry, no one dies





	The Death of a Hero

**Author's Note:**

> So there was a tumblr post going around and I thought I'd try my hand at it. It was by @messythoughtsandscribbledplots
> 
> [“I can’t do this anymore.”
> 
> The villain stared in shock at the hero, standing uninvited in front of the villain’s home, weak and trembling in the cold.
> 
> “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to keep fighting. Just… just k-kill me. Or lock me up. Or whatever you’ve been planning this whole time, I don’t care. But I can’t do this. I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t… I can’t keep fighting you—“
> 
> The villain’s heart melted at the sight, the shaking hero, pale and exhausted and on the verge of tears.
> 
> “Hush, little hero, who did this to you?” The hero flinched at the sound of the villain’s voice, their eyes going wide as they were pulled into the villain’s arms. “Come in and have a cup of tea, I promise you’ll be safe here. I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”]
> 
> I deviated a bit and expanded on it but I followed the premise. I hope you like it!  
> Oh, one last thing, their Hero/Villain names, Roman is Prince Charming and Virgil is Patchwork

Roman had never imagined a day like this would come.

But here he was, downtrodden, defeated, and soaked to the bone, standing in the rain in front of the house of whom he thought he loathed most. Usually the very thought of being near the man would set a fire ablaze in his soul. But now...

He’s just tired.

He had no idea how long he stood there in front of the small house with the low fence deeming him out of the property, and didn’t really think about moving until a familiar silhouette stood in front of him, haloed by the porch light. 

“Well if it isn’t Prince Charming,” the shadow said in that taunting lilt of his. 

The hero blinked at him, his eye catching the glint of a knife in one of the villain’s hands as he toyed with it. Usually it would spark adrenaline in his system, a grin as sharp as the knife cutting across his face, his muscles tensed to avoid the blade and knock it out of the wielder's grasp, ready to take on the threat before him.

This time none of that happened.

“Guess you found me or whatever,” the villain grumbled. “So, what now? You try to beat the shit out of me or--”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The villain said nothing, and with his face obscured by the shadows, Roman couldn’t tell if he was puzzled or curious or startled or what. And frankly it didn’t really matter anymore.

After an extended silence, no sound but the heavy rain around them soaking them through, the silhouette seemed to tense the grip on his weapon.

“...What?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Roman repeated. “I can’t...I can’t keep fighting.” He bowed his head, exposing himself how he never had before, how he never imagined doing in front of this monster. “Just...kill me. Or beat me. Or lock me up. Whatever you’ve been planning this whole time, I don’t care, just...get it over with. Because I can’t do it, I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t...I can’t keep fighting, I--” Roman barely caught himself choking on a sob that fought to come out. He was already this exposed, he wanted to retain some miniscule amount of pride, no matter what was to come from here on.

There was another extended silence before either moved.

When the shadow extended a hand, part of Roman tensed, sure he would be grabbed, but instead the hand gripped the gate between them and pulled it open, and he stepped just off the path, leaving space. Roman looked at him questioningly, but the villain had his head turned just so and the light still didn’t touch his face.

“I’m not standing out here in the rain with you,” he said gruffly. “You said I could do whatever. You gonna take that back?”

Roman sighed, his shoulders slumping further as he shook his head and took that step into the dragon’s den. The shadow closed the gate behind Roman and led him up to the porch, opening the door and holding it open behind him.

Despite everything, Roman couldn’t stop his curiosity at seeing how his arch enemy lived. But it wasn’t some evil lair with bones and tomes or gadgets and screens like his mind had conjured up. It was just...a small house. Hardly decorated, could clearly use some more flair, but it was just...simple. 

He turned and looked at the man he’d surrendered himself to, watched as he folded the flickblade in his hand and stuffed it in his pocket, as he took off the jacket that protected everything but his hair from the downpour. He was startled somewhat looking at his face, bare of the disguise he was used to. He was...his face was somewhat angular, but his eyes not nearly as sunken as his disguise had led Roman to believe. The structure of his face seemed strong but also somehow...soft. His familiar silvery eyes looked up into Roman’s deep brown ones through thin purple bangs and he stared back. No going back now.

The man sighed. “Follow me,” he grumbled, heading up the stairs and further into the house. He stopped and opened a door and gestured Roman inside. It was a bathroom. Roman turned back to him. The man folded his arms and seemed to look anywhere but Roman’s face. “Get undressed, drop your clothes outside the door, and take a shower.” Roman tensed up, connecting the dots, and the man must have noticed because he tensed as well. “No--no! Not-- ugh, you idiot. Just-- you’re a mess, you need to get cleaned off. I don’t want you messing up my house.” 

Roman was still suspicious and wary, but nodded. “Whatever you say,” he said, his voice barely audible.

The man frowned deeply but turned on his heel, tugging the door closed behind him as he said, “Use whatever you need or whatever. Just don’t mess with my stuff,” and Roman was alone.

The last thing he wanted was to see his own body right now. He’d rather have been bound and beaten like he thought he would have been. But he had said anything, and...a Prince kept his word.

Roman pulled off his mask and his outfit, struggling to avoid catching sight of anything as the fabric stuck to his skin even more than it did before. Despite everything, he carefully folded up his costume, tending to it almost reverently as he reluctantly set it outside the door. Returning to the bathroom, he set the water running. He was tempted to leave it freezing to spite the villain, or set it to scalding to spite himself, but eventually set it to a moderately comfortable temperature and got in.

His thoughts wandered as he thought about what he was doing, surrendering himself over like this. He didn’t regret it, not yet at least. Not much could be worse than being himself right now, and he couldn’t escape in his mask. This was his only escape. In this Patchwork villain. He’d often wondered why the villain had chosen a name like Patchwork. Not that it mattered, but it didn’t seem to have anything to do with his powers or personality, just his costume. And his outfit was sort of cat-themed too, you’d think he’d use something about being cat-like with that and how sneaky and agile he is, but no.

He had no idea how long he was under the water. He seemed to come in and out of focus, almost like he was in a dream, or a nightmare. Like he was drifting in and out of sleep. Or like he was a character in a movie that was shifting scenes before him. He kept shaking himself out of it and managed to clean himself off and wash his hair. He was almost started by the sweet, somewhat floral scent of the shampoo. It...wasn’t at all what he imagined his enemy would smell like.

....Not that he’d imagined that...

...

...intentionally...

Roman rinsed the soap off of his body and stepped out, hesitantly grabbing the towel hanging on the door to dry himself off. He then went to peek out of the door, but something blocked the door. Or rather, it stopped it up a bit as it sat in the way. Where Roman had left his costume was a different set of clothing. Likely left for him to change into. It seemed to be sweatpants and a t-shirt (of course no underwear, that’d be weird). The pants fit strange, loose in places he wasn’t used to, tight in some places, and they were just on the side of too long. The shirt, on the other hand, was very tight. It fit, but it clung to his skin and framed his muscles.

Fully dressed, Roman exited the bathroom, and not knowing what else to do, he headed back downstairs, following the sounds of life where his enemy was likely busy with...something.

Patchwork stood over the kitchen counter and turned as he heard Roman coming down the stairs. His eyes widened as they skimmed over his...guest? and his face promptly flushed as he forced his eyes  away. It shouldn’t have been as endearing as it was. Roman’s lip almost lifted in amusement. Almost.

“Thanks for the clothes,” he said softly.

The man looked away, turning back to his task to hide that his face was growing a deeper red. “Well I couldn’t let you get back in those soaking rags and I sure as fuck wasn’t gonna deal with you walking around my house with nothing, so...” He shrugged. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I couldn’t really find anything that looked like it’d fit over your stupid muscles so...sorry if it fits funny.”

Roman blinked. “These are your clothes?”

The man glanced at him, an irritated expression on his face. “Who else’s would they be?”

Roman looked down at said clothes. He hadn’t thought about it really. But it wasn’t really a wonder, now that he knew. The shirt was tight because its owner was thin and lanky, and the pants fit weird because they belonged to a man with more lithe muscles and longer legs. 

Patchwork seemed uncomfortable as he kept working until he snapped, “Jeez, can you just sit the fuck down or something? You’re just hovering there and it’s--” he paused, seeming to stumble over what he wanted to say. “...it’s obnoxious,” he grumbled.

Roman pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“Where’s my outfit?” Roman asked softly.

“ ‘m washing it,” the other grumbled. No further information forthcoming, Roman looked down at his hands and zoned out.

Less than a minute later, a mug was placed in front of him, and a lanky frame flopped into the chair across from him. “Drink it, if you can manage. It’s...it should help.”

Roman looked from the man to the drink and back again, trying to get a read on the one who was giving so much, so far for nothing, and was sipping his own mug with a very controlled expression. Roman hesitantly picked up the mug and took a sip. It was bitter, but also strangely sweet...chamomile? Or lavender? With honey maybe? Whatever it was, the other was right; it was calming. He remembered Detective Croft making him drink some much stronger, more bitter tea that smelled really similar on a bad night... He shuddered. He shouldn’t be thinking about him, or anyone.

“So,” the violet-fringed man said, startling Roman from his thoughts. “Who do I owe for dropping Roman Princeton on my doorstep at one in the morning?”

Roman’s eyes widened. “H-how...do you--”

The man rolled his eyes. “Subtlety isn’t one of your strong suits,” he said, sipping his tea. “I mean, ‘Prince Charming’? ‘Princeton’? And it amazes me no one else has figured you out, especially with that loud voice and louder personality.” He snorted, then grimaced some. “And I’m pretty good at getting information I want. So. How’d you find me?”

Roman looked down, his face flushing. “I may have...followed you...once.” He flinched as he saw the tension of the other’s grip increase. “I-it was a while ago, and I lost you a few blocks away. I...” He set his mug down and scratched his arm. “I was walking around here for...a while. Guess I got lucky.”

A silence washed over the room, the villain narrowing his eyes at the hero across from him as said hero avoided eye contact like it would be the death of him, and scratching his arm rather intensely. Patchwork’s jaw clenched, but he leaned forward, lightly tapping Roman’s hand. Roman froze and looked up at him, startled.

“Stop that,” he demanded as he leaned back in his chair. After shifting his jaw, he said “You didn’t answer my question.”

Roman looked away. “What question?”

He huffed. “Don’t play dumb with me, Princey. You’re not  _ that _ stupid.” When Roman flinched, the other’s eyes narrowed further. “Prince. What happened to you?”

“Nothing!” he said sharply. “Nothing happened, I’m fine, I--”

“You came to _ my _ house during a downpour in the middle of the night. Even ignoring that you shouldn’t have a clue where I live and now I probably have to relocate,  _ thanks by the way _ , you came to me. You hate me. You’ve made that incredibly clear over the years.”

“That’s...” Roman paused, choking back the words that almost came out. He was going to say that it wasn’t true, but...well, he’d hated him so intensely and for so long, and to some extent he still was uncertain. The questioning was a recent development. There wasn’t much he could say.

Patchwork shrugged regardless. “Not that I blame you. I’m not really a fan either.”

Roman blinked, startled by the coy smirk on the man’s lips. His brow furrowed. He had no idea if he meant that or if it was just a joke...or both. 

The villain set his mug down and leaned forward. “Look. I don’t want to pry. Normally it’d be none of my business.” Roman looked up cautiously. The other’s voice was oddly...soft. Still low and gravelly but...soothing somehow.  “But you came to me kind of asking me to kill you, that kinda makes it my business.”

“I didn’t--” at the other’s flat look Roman fidgeted and looked away. “I just...I offered that because I thought that was...what you wanted.”

The villain’s eyes narrowed, tense with tempered rage that sent shivers across Roman’s skin. But when he spoke, it was smooth and controlled. “Prince. I know I have blood on my hands, but tell me-- all of the people I killed, how many of their lives did I take myself?”

This gave Roman pause. He thought back. His memory wasn’t the best (and admittedly foggy with nerves right now) but...thinking about it...not many had been killed by the villain, not directly, and most of the ones who  _ had _ died did so long after he’d vanished. Most had died afterwards in the hospital. And even those were very  _ very _ few. They stuck out to him, the loss of life and the seeming injustice of it and the burn of his own failure, but that didn’t make them the most common occurrences. He tried to think back to causes of death and...he felt the sting of his own stupidity and insensitivity when he realized never really paid attention to that. He vaguely remembers hearing heart attack and blood loss a handful of times... And the more he thought the more he realized, most of the villain’s crimes weren’t violent. He remembered hearing one of the police detectives rambling off things at him; assault, breaking and entering, theft, trespassing, vandalism. Even Detective Croft, the detective he (reluctantly) worked with most, had never called Patchwork a murderer.

And he was right.

Roman curled into himself, feeling guilty. “I...I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

The villain huffed. “Moron...” He seemed to hesitate over his next move, but then scooted his chair forward. “Prince. I’m going to ask you permission for something, okay?”

Roman gulped and looked up at him. He tried to force his expression into his normal cocky grin. It came out weak but it was something. “Is it to ask if you can use my name?”

Patchwork blinked. “I--...no? But, uh...would you...rather I call you that? R-Roman?”

Roman’s expression became a little less forced. His rival was flustered using his real name. It was...cute. “Yeah. Yeah, go ahead. If you want.”

The man’s cheeks seemed to flush and he nodded, clearing his throat. “O-okay. Roman. But, uh, that wasn’t what I was gonna ask.” He took a deep breath, quickly calming and looking very serious again. “I want your permission to use my powers on you.”

Roman’s pulse jumped and his expression fell. “...I did say you could do anything,” he said quietly.

“I know. Don’t care. I’m asking if it’s okay.”

Roman shifted in his chair uncomfortably but resigned himself. “Go ahead.” When the villain didn’t move, staring at him, Roman had to resist bringing his hand to his mouth to bite on his knuckles. “It’s fine.”

The other’s frown deepened, but he said. “Fine. Warning you now, I’m gonna touch your hand, alright?” When Roman nodded, he reached forward and his hand rested over Roman’s.

Roman had expected a wave of anxiety, fear, terror. He knew most of the villain’s un-maimed and conscious victims were in an awful state of panic when he or the cops found them. He expected his pulse to race faster, his mind to race with everything that had happened and was happening, his skin to itch even more than it did now, his lungs to constrict as though vines were crushing them, his heart to beat loud enough to hear and hard enough to pound through his chest and burst.

None of that happened.

With the other man’s touch (Roman fought not to notice that there were very few calluses and his hands were overall very soft and warm) it was more like from that point of contact, everything felt...okay. Good, even. His pulse actually slowed, his breathing seemed to instinctively even out, the tenseness that had worked its way back into his muscles slowly dissipated. He felt a light flush rise in his cheeks and an unbidden sigh of contentment escaped through his nose. He was...calm. Moreso than he had ever been before, that he remembered. He was almost always anxious, usually in a good, excited, adrenaline-fueled way, but still. There was rarely a moment where he ever let himself relax, and now...now it was like laying in the warm sun after swimming against a current for hours.

When he looked up at the other man who was watching him intently, a curious look worked its way past his contentment. “What is this? I didn’t know you could do something like this.”

He pursed his lips a moment. “You thought I just scared people, didn’t you?” When Roman nodded, he looked away. Roman felt a wave of guilt and uncertainty, but it was quickly washed away by whatever this man was doing. “It’s...I can influence people's emotions. However I want.” His free hand began pulling at his jacket as he looked down. “I’m...better at causing fear or anger or...just, less pleasant feelings. I can kinda radiate those, but you know that. I...need to be closer to make people feel better.”

Roman nodded, trying to absorb the information through the calm haze. A thought popped into his head.

“Is that...your more unplanned attacks, was that...was no one there because you did this for them?”

“Yeah,” he said. “They don’t need the baggage.”

The villain started and looked at the hero with wide eyes when Roman placed his other hand on top of the one resting on his. There was a soft smile on his lips that made the other man’s heart stutter, the stupid thing. “I’m sorry, Kitty. I think I...misjudged you this whole time. I’m not usually wrong, but I am willing to admit when I am. And with you it seems I was very very wrong. I may not be worthy of your forgiveness, but I hope you can accept my apology.”

He only had a moment to look at Patchwork’s face, eyes wide, mouth ajar, blushing so deeply that Roman noticed the dusting of freckles over his nose and cheeks he hadn’t noticed before. He’d just been given a glimpse before quick as anything the hand was pulled from his and the other was out of his chair, facing away from Roman. With the loss of contact, much of the warmth and calm he’d been feeling pulled away with him. Not all of it, but enough that he realized he’d probably overstepped, and, to his surprise, missed having their hands overlapping.

“Patch--”

“It’s late, you probably need to sleep,” Patchwork said sharply. “I’ll let you keep your secrets tonight, but you’re telling me tomorrow.” He quickly left the room. Roman got up to follow him quickly, what he could have done to upset him and how to make it up to him. He stumbled into Patchwork’s living room as the man threw a pillow at one end and tossed a blanket on the other. “You can sleep here tonight. I’m going to bed.”

As he tried to quickly brush past Roman up the stairs, Roman barely restrained himself from reaching out and grabbing the man’s arm or shoulder to stop him and keep him there. Instead, his voice squeaked out “W-wait!”

Patchwork stopped but didn’t turn to look at him. Realizing he was waiting for Roman to speak, Roman tried to cough up something he wanted to say.

“I-- um, s-sorry but...since you...know my name, can...may I have yours? Uh, I-I mean! Would you, tell me yours?” He fidgeted. “It’s a bit odd to keep calling you Patchwork like this.”

The room was silent for a good while, and Roman resigned to not getting an answer and went to go over to the couch when he heard the other mumble something.

“Pardon?” he prodded gently.

“Virgil,” Patchwork said. “It’s Virgil. My name.”

“Virgil,” Roman huffed, feeling the syllables out with his tongue, a soft and genuine smile making its way to his lips despite everything. “Eclectic. Romantic. I like it.”

Virgil’s shoulders seemed to work their way up to his noticeably red ears. “Whatever,” he grumbled, continuing his trek upstairs presumably to his room.

“Good night,” Roman whispered just as he heard a door click closed. After a moment of his mind racing sluggishly, the whole night, the whole day playing through his head as it tried to pick everything apart. When he came back to himself, he went over to the couch that Patchwork-- _ Virgil  _ had set up for him. It had been such a long day, he was admittedly exhausted, physically and emotionally. He laid down, pulling the blanket up over him and letting his eyes fall shut, hoping any dreams conjured up would be less confusing than the day had been.


End file.
